A Pox on the ‘Vaux’
by
Patricia McGready-Buffardi
At the close of 1954, when my
father (Captain Colin Eric McGready) came home from his office on the base, he
was more elated than I’d seen him in a long while. He had just received orders
to take command of a destroyer, which was docked in Bombay, and I realized at
once that we would not be seeing much of him during the coming year. I knew,
too, that another momentous journey challenged the family jalopy. For the most
part, however, the Vauxhall was merely expected to retrace the tracks she had
made twelve months earlier, the return trip taking us from the naval base at
Vizag (now called Visakhapatnam) on the East Coast to Bombay on the West Coast,
and the only part truly alien to her, and us, would be the road at our halfway
point, from Bangalore to Belgaum. Any jalopy in the hands of a capable mechanic
could have made the trip without much ado. But in the hands of “the world’s
worst mechanic,” according to my mother (Lorna McGready, née McGowan),
we were doomed from the start.
The endless round of
farewells, formal and informal, began in earnest. Anxious to move on, I could
barely stand the wait, but putting the servants—Ishi, Padma and baby Ashok on a
train for Bombay—was a true indicator that we would soon be on the road again.
Typical of every departure, the overloaded ‘Vaux’ on the gravel driveway must
have looked a comical sight to all passers-by. Needless to say, backing out of
the compound was no easy feat, and Daddy complained bitterly about the wet towels
fluttering at the windows. Somehow the ‘Vaux’ arrived at the main gate in one
piece only to find my father’s colleagues blocking our path under the big arch.
Determined to enjoy one last hurrah the officers and men asked Daddy to turn
off the ignition, as they belted out an old colonial favourite, “For he’s a
jolly good fellow!” Then, profusely garlanded and ‘salaamed,’ we were
allowed to proceed. But as the sentry at the gate smartly presented arms, and
the officers and men saluted in unison, the ‘Vaux’ suddenly began to misbehave.
I do not know what was said
about the old girl the day we started off on that long haul, or if she had
heard our comments some days earlier about her capabilities, but something
definitely rankled and she was now determined to teach us a lesson. Announcing
a slow, ugly “hiss-hiss-hiss,” she slouched forward, giving us merry travellers
quite a scare and making our final exit from the base an absolute tamasha.
Even before Daddy had a chance to determine exactly what was ailing the ‘Vaux,’
dozens of voices were more than willing to tell him, the din rising to a
crescendo: “A flat tyre, sir!” Suppressing an irrepressible desire to giggle as
we exited the jalopy, I was relieved to see that several young men had already
stepped forward with great gusto to aid my crestfallen father. Changing the
tyre in mere minutes the beaming young men stepped back. Then, after some hasty
handshaking and more hugs, we made a quick get-away, and the handsome arch
announcing the naval base, INS Circars, was soon behind us.
Murphy’s Law, however, hid in
the boot. Barely two hours out of Vizag and we were forced to halt again, this
time on the banks of the raging Godavari River, where boats and rafts and
buffaloes were plopped down on its banks, waiting out a storm. Although delays
were to be expected in the summer during the Monsoon season, this was a sudden
winter storm which flooded the land, drowning dogs and cows and washing away
thatched roofs and mud walls. Perched on a bluff above the river, we spent an
anxious night in a Dak Bungalow, the wind howling like a million hyenas.
Drifting off to sleep, I don’t remember exactly when the din ceased but,
mercifully, it did. Up early the next morning, still shaking off our
grogginess, we crossed the now calm Godavari in a ferry that had seen better
days, the rustic, raft-like structure accessed via two wobbly gangplanks.
Somehow Daddy steered the ‘Vaux’ up the ramp and onto the wooden platform, ours
the only vehicle allowed on that run, surrounded by gawking pedestrians. As the
shoeless ferry-boat operators poled us across the muddy river I swear the old ‘Vaux’
was grinning, “You can’t blame this delay on me!” Driving off the ramp, onto
the opposite bank of the river, it was a relief to see a mile marker,
indicating that our next stop, Madras, was a mere 250 miles. Taking in some
coastal scenery, we planned on being there well before sunset.
With nary a cloud in the sky
it looked as if it would be smooth sailing all the way, until a sudden metallic
“clang-clang” burst through the lazy, hypnotic afternoon. Jerking the ‘Vaux’ to
a rude halt, Daddy flew out of his seat. From his prostate position on the
muddy shoulder of the road, his voice calm, he announced that he had located
the problem. But rising to his full 6-foot frame, his angry voice conveyed the
admonition of a long-suffering husband who had warned, time and again, that the
car was never to be overloaded. “We’ve had it!” said the amateur mechanic.
Apparently the problem was a broken rear spring—a main leaf at that—the
once-concave rear springs now convex, redesigned by our bulky load. The
faithful old girl certainly could not be blamed for this mishap, and I swear I
heard her chanting, “I told you I couldn’t carry everything.”
If there was one redeeming
feature about long-distance travel in India it was the readiness of lorry
drivers to lend a hand in one’s hour of need. Back then, most lorry drivers
were Sikhs, well known on the roadways for their mechanical skills. In fact,
all across the country, scores of Sikh men were not just lorry drivers but taxi
drivers as well, their long tresses knotted into a little bun on top of their
heads, their neatly pleated turbans hiding any evidence of their hair.
Followers of Guru Nanak, who was born into a Hindu family in 1469, the Sikhs
oppose idol worship, practised by Hindus, but have maintained the tradition of
cremating their own dead, just as their Hindu neighbours do. The Punjab in
Northwest India, home to most Sikhs, contributed significantly to the national
transportation network. I must admit that, as a child, I knew very little about
Sikhism and it wasn’t until my late teens, with our family residing next door
to a gurdwara, that I showed any real interest in their house of worship and
their religion. In the armed forces, my father’s Sikh colleagues had the same
last name, Singh (lion), and as I grew up and dated several handsome young Sikh
lads, I became aware of their religion’s five tenets: they must not cut their
hair, and they had to wear a steel bracelet, a comb, a dagger, and breeches
beneath their trousers.
Within minutes of our mishap,
a lorry skidded to a halt behind us. True to form, a cheerful, bearded Sikh
driver swung out of his high cab, his head wrapped in a shocking-pink turban. “What’s
the trouble, Sahib?” “Broken spring,” replied my irate father. “Got a spare
spring, Sahib?” “Of course not!” growled my father, acting as if there were far
more important items than springs to fill a boot. “Sahib should always carry
spare spring when overloaded,” said the grinning young man. “See!” said my
father, looking directly at my mother, who stood discreetly mute beside her
brood, all vying for the shade of a lone palm tree.
Suddenly, a large van pulled
up beside us, its sides and rear plastered with gaudy posters, its windscreen
splattered with several small brochures, and the only visible part of the
driver was his grinning face, the red dot and white lines on his forehead
indicating he was a Hindu. Except for its tyres the van was totally obliterated
by cardboard cutouts of giant-sized actresses and actors, animals, birds and
temples—a rolling advertisement for South Indian films. While the Sikh and
Hindu drivers commiserated over our plight, noisy crows, coal-black, flapped
their way onto the gaudy monster, alighting on paper butterflies. Then, as soon
as my father agreed to a small monetary sum requested by the Hindu driver,
Mummy, Di, Mike and I were allowed to climb aboard his grotesque-looking
vehicle and, heading for Madras, hard wooden benches replaced our soft,
quilt-covered perches in the ‘Vaux.’ Later, when Daddy caught up with us in the
port city, we were apprised of his fears that he would never see us again, as
the monster on wheels roared off in a cloud of dust, our tiny heads poking
through some strange animal parts.
Apologizing for his inability
to assist my father, since he lacked the spring necessary for our vehicle, the
lorry driver was full of assurances that the paralyzed vehicle would make it to
Madras with her lighter load. Patting the bonnet, the well-meaning driver
wished my father, “Too much luck and too much wisdom,” every bit of it sorely
needed. Somehow, the ‘Vaux’ limped the 65 miles into Madras without mishap,
arriving late in the evening, the family safely ensconced with friends at Fort
St. George on the waterfront. Early the next day, we children were thrilled
when Mummy accompanied us to the beach. But as we waded into the cool, clear
waters of the Bay of Bengal, we were admonished to stay just knee-deep, our
swimsuits well on the way to Bombay with the rest of our goods. Later, after a
city mechanic had fitted a new main leaf under the rear of the ‘Vaux,’ the
shiny black sedan was finally ready to roll on. Recollecting the sage advice of
the Sikh driver, to save the old main leaf for emergencies, Daddy insisted on
stuffing the bulky item into the already overloaded boot.
Heading west from Madras,
enveloped by the bleakness of the Eastern Ghats, the ‘Vaux’ took the ascent
like an old pro, our next stop at Bangalore a mere 200 miles away. But Murphy’s
Law confronted us again! Suddenly, as the road continued to climb, the steering
wheel went limp in my father’s hands. “WHAT have I done to deserve this?”
demanded Daddy, looking skyward. Fortunately, since he had not been breaking
any speed records, he brought the rebel to a quick stop and, prostate under the
chassis, noticed immediately that something was definitely amiss. “We’ve had
it!” he hollered from his horizontal position. “Something’s dangling loose
here.” On his knees, beside his father, nine-year-old Mike attempted to help, “Maybe
we’re overloaded, Daddy.”
A lorry to the rescue
again! Pulling up behind us, a burly
Sikh driver, a whole head taller than my six-foot father, exited his vehicle, a
skinny young lad shadowing him, their heads wrapped neatly in the same shade of
blue. Sauntering over to our crippled vehicle, the gregarious driver asked in
perfect English tones, “What’s the trouble, Sahib?” They all seemed to know
English and Daddy was ever so grateful that they understood him implicitly, “She
won’t steer and there’s something
dangling under the engine.” In seconds, the lorry driver was
on his back beneath the ‘Vaux.’ The news was bleak. “The tie-rod end is loose,
Sahib.”
I have often wondered what
caused so many mishaps, and have come to the conclusion it must have been, as
Mummy called it, the “khud-khud” roads we travelled, the ‘Vaux’ appearing to be
on a washboard surface. But help was there when we needed it. “Got any wire,
Sahib?” Astounded that he was expected to carry wire on family excursions Daddy
replied tersely, “Of course not!” Getting to his feet, the lorry driver
continued to rub salt into the wound, “Sahib should always carry wire, but don’t
worry I have some.” Rummaging through his toolbox the giant beamed
triumphantly, passing the glinting copper wire to his fragile driving
companion. Not surprisingly, as the elder man wriggled like a worm under the
car, his turban slipped off his head. Then, coming up for air, the valiant Sikh
announced gleefully, “It’s fixed now. No problem, Sahib.” Anxiously my father
quizzed, “But, will it get us to Bangalore?” There was a wealth of scorn in the
giant’s response. “Bangalore, Sahib?” he literally shrieked. “This will take
you all the way to Bombay.” He talked on, and on, and we had to take his word
for it, particularly when he led us to his
lorry and pointed proudly to the tie-rod repair job on his
own vehicle. A couple of minutes later, with much appreciation and mutual good
wishes, we parted from the twin turbans.
At Bangalore, our anxious
hosts for the night suggested that we spend a couple of extra days with them,
since our next stretch to Belgaum was about 250 miles farther west. This would
allow adequate time for the tie-rod to be properly fixed. Against all advice,
my father decided to push on, knowing that Bombay had a plethora of good
mechanics. And, with his reporting date imminent, Daddy was anxious to take
command of his ship, commencing exercises with the fleet in the Arabian and
Mediterranean Seas. Up at dawn, we left the plateau of Bangalore on a cold
clear morning, the pink-lilac hues of a new day one of the true delights of our
road trips. We were sailing along on a smooth macadam surface, for a change,
when it suddenly turned bumpy and we knew, at once, that we were on a heavily
corrugated surface, the repetitious “khud-khud” sounds deafening within the
sedan. Chugging along, Daddy pointed to a convoy of lorries
which were stopped up ahead, their gleaming new cabs looming high above each
chassis. Just ten miles ahead of the resting convoy my father’s gut instinct
alerted him to impending disaster. If ever a car had a personality of her own
the ‘Vaux’ certainly had. Pamper her, talk softly in her presence, eulogize her
performance and she would purr along, behaving quite well. Curse and swear,
kick tyres in exasperation and you were just plain lucky if she didn’t
backfire, and break your wrist when you swung the handle to start her.
Pulling off the road, Daddy
stopped the car abruptly. “What’s the matter?” asked my mother. “Nothing,” he
grunted, walking around to the back of the ‘Vaux.’ Within seconds, we all knew
what was wrong. “Help!” yelped my father. “The petrol’s leaking out.” Bounding
out of the rear seat, 1 witnessed our precious petrol trickling like treacle under
the chassis, dark puddles evident in the mud. Hurling himself under the car,
Daddy announced that the filling pipe was no longer connected to the petrol
tank. Despite his brute strength, forcing the pipe back up to its joint in the
tank proved impossible. Our lifeline continued to drip. “Help!”
Daddy croaked again. I stood there frozen. Then, commanding immediate action,
he hollered again. “Don’t just stand there! Do something!” 1 continued to be
rooted to the muddy spot but was saved by the quick response of my
problem-solving sister, who raced to the boot. Snatching a large cauldron from
its innards she placed it under the chassis and the pot overflowed with
precious petrol, a great relief to my anxious father, who thanked his eldest
child profusely, “Shabash! Shabash!” Then, turning to the rest of us, he gloated, “See
what a genius this child is!”
As if on cue the thunder of lorries and clouds of dust hailed us, brakes squealing right
behind us. Then, as several lorry drivers walked through the dusty curtain, I
chirped, “Here we go again.” Twelve bearded men approached us (six drivers and
six co-drivers), their turbans a palette of vibrant hues. In sync with each
other, two of the lean ones opened their mouths together, “What’s the trouble, Sahib!”
“Petrol leaking,” groaned my father. The skinniest of
the two spokesmen stepped forward, “No problem, Sahib. Got soap?” “Taken
aback, Daddy replied, “Of course not!” Then, remembering our problem-solver,
Daddy quizzed, “Got soap?” While Di rushed to the boot, delving deep into her
toilet bag for a precious bar of soap, technical advice rolled off the lips of
the man in charge, “You must always keep soap handy, Sahib.” Silence
from my father. Soon, under the ‘Vaux,’ the driver announced yet another
horrific problem, “Main spring broken, Sahib.” Down on all fours,
examining the offending spring, Daddy concurred with the expert, “Wow! The main
leaf has snapped clean as a whistle.” Somehow, I sensed the old ‘Vaux’ chanting
again, “1 told you not to overload me!” Now, at last, here was proof of undue
pressure on the springs. “We’ve had it this time,” my father said, glaring at
each of us in turn. But in spite of our communal frustrations and misgivings,
the lorry drivers were not easily perturbed. While one optimist offered, “We
fix car in no time, Sahib,” another beamed with reassurance, “This is
temporary measure, until you find town for repairs.”
With the temporary repairs
completed our new friends offered to convey Mama Bear and her three cubs to the
nearest town, stressing that Papa Bear needed to keep the ‘Vaux’ very light, as
she limped towards more permanent repairs. One by one, Mummy, Di, Mike and I
were hoisted by the drivers into four separate cabs. Yet again, we abandoned
Daddy and the old jalopy, our convoy burning rubber all the way to the nearest
town. Arriving several hours later, Daddy found us safely installed in a Dak Bungalow,
our redeemers having refused a tip for their invaluable aid.
There were now two repairs to
be done: The main leaf of the main spring; and the joint between the petrol
pipe and petrol tank. For some reason, we were not overly surprised to find no
garage or mechanics in town, since none of the residents of small towns, back
then, could afford a vehicle. But Allah be praised, there was a Muslim lohar,
blacksmith, his small but piercing eyes greeting us warily, as he looked up
from his reed mat on the floor of his tin shed, where he chipped incessantly at
something metallic. It soon became painfully obvious, from the tedious
conversation between the lohar and my father, and my efforts to
translate the old man’s Hindi, that there was no main leaf available anywhere
in the immediate vicinity. Murphy’s Law ruled again. I could see that Daddy was
visibly stressed. Although bicycle repair equipment was available all over
town, the only place where a main leaf could be procured was about 80 miles away.
Naturally, agitated discussion followed this revelation, the lohar’s
grating voice finally agreeing that something could be done to ease the sorry
state of the ‘Vaux’—but only if a few bits of spring were handy. “See!” said my
father, his smug demeanour announcing his foresight in saving the busted spring
in the boot.
To village artisans time is
irrelevant and the hunched lohar categorically refused to provide a date
or time for completion. The ‘Vaux’ was at his mercy and so were we. The repairs
were going to take some hours, maybe days. Mummy, who had not reckoned on such
a dramatically prolonged journey, was fit to be tied. “Enough is enough,” she
muttered, as she ordered her young followers to ready their overnight bags for
a quick departure, the four of us boarding a Belgaum-bound train within the
hour. Casting aside any apprehensions he may have had, Daddy waved us off and
wished us a fun-time with our cousins in the vast military cantonment. Parting
from our father was bittersweet but, to be perfectly honest, we had been
looking forward to arriving on our cousins’ doorstep in our very first motorcar
and were really more concerned about the paralyzed jalopy than dear Daddy.
In Belgaum, giving up all
hope of seeing our family that day, the Heffernans retired to bed, leaving a
verandah light burning. Back then, telephones were only available in major
cities around the country and hardly anyone had the luxury of a phone at home.
Chugging into Belgaum station in the dark, four weary passengers disembarked
from the train, piling into a tonga which had
seen better days. Hauled by a rather lean horse our load soon caused it to
stagger across the roadway, and the wagon wheels sounded like they, too, were
ready to collapse. With no street lamps, and no headlights to guide us, the tonga-wallah
stopped several times to get directions and, with only the moon to light our
path, we finally found the right road. Exhausted but relieved we arrived at the
cantonment, a smart young soldier pointing the way to the officers’ quarters.
Within minutes, we arrived at a lovely colonial bungalow, the horse’s hooves
clicking and clacking noisily as we rumbled down the long gravel driveway. Even
before the tonga halted under the portico, my mother’s
sister Sheila, her husband Pat, and our cousins Elaine, June and Pam were on
the verandah, watching four bedraggled travellers tumble out. In unison, we
greeted our pajama-clad relatives with tales of the exciting spate of events
which led to our arrival in a tonga instead of the ‘Vaux.’
Eventually, Daddy caught up
with us, arriving in time for dinner the next day. The lohar, working
diligently the same day we had boarded the train, riveted sections of the
original main leaf to the broken spring and soldered the pipe to the petrol
tank, completing the task at four o’clock the next morning. There is much to be
said about Indian artisans, lorry drivers and villagers, whose time and
generosity of heart and spirit never waned in all the years our family
crisscrossed the subcontinent. Their service, although not always excellent was
without question cheerfully provided.
At the Heffernans’ dinner
table, Aunt Sheila enquired if the “Belgaum chicken” was too spicy. It was not.
It was absolutely delicious, and we licked our fingers clean, indicating that
dinner was an unqualified success. “Did you really like it?” asked Uncle Pat,
his gold tooth glinting as he let the cat out of the bag. We had just sampled a
house specialty, which he had bagged with a pellet-gun several days earlier.
Flying Fox! Animated discussion ensued on the tasty dish we had just consumed,
none of us any the worse for wear. Thankfully, the little critters were fruit
thieves. Bat-like, they had furry bodies, with tiny webbed wings spread wide in
flight. Dozens of black fruit bats appeared nightly in the compound, hanging
upside down like miniature paper kites caught in the boughs of a large guava
tree—ripe, yellow guavas especially appetizing to bats. Memories of our own
guava tree in Cochin flooded back, and I was glad that it was bees and not bats
I had come face to face with as we children played in its spreading branches.
After a brief respite with
her sister’s family my mother was anxious to push on, the delivery of our
household goods in Bombay imminent. But with us children still enjoying the
school break the grownups concurred that we should stay on in Belgaum. It was a
happy and exciting time, as we scampered about the cantonment with our young
kin, Elaine, June and Pam, the six of us close in ages. Before long, introduced
to a slew of neighbourhood children, there were cakes and candles and ice-cream
for all, with many youthful birthdays celebrated, and I formed a lifelong friendship
with the Suares sisters—Brenda, Cheryl and Ann. While their mother was a nurse
at the army hospital in the cantonment, their father was employed at the
railway station. Their grandmother Alice Suares, it turned out, was none other
than the Chief Inspector of Anglo-Indian Schools, who had recently inspected
the convent we children attended in Vizag. Mrs. Suares was also grandmother to
our cousins, Jennifer, Keith and Roger, the children of my father’s sister,
Merlin, and her husband, Joseph “Bell” Suares. It always seemed that no matter
how far we travelled across the vast subcontinent, someone knew someone in the
large McGready family from Central India. Alas, all good things come to an end
but, long after we departed Belgaum, I savoured those lazy days with our
cantonment cousins and friends.
As I write today, my thoughts
go back to the many exciting vacations we children enjoyed with our Heffernan
cousins. But the one I will never forget was at Ahmedabad, a cantonment town
just north of Bombay. I remember those cheerful, nightly scenarios in the
cantonment bungalow, as we kissed our card-playing parents goodnight, departing
the drawing room for our vast bedroom under the stars. Taking with us our
precious cargo, each of us cousins placed a shoebox under our respective
beds—six tortoises slumbering under their individual owners. Wandering in under
the garden fence the tiny tortoises had been captured by us children, their
chopped-cabbage sustenance cajoled out of the khansamah. At whim, we
usually scrubbed their hard brown shells with toothbrushes and soapy water,
bedding them down each night in their leaf-filled boxes. Lying there, under the
star-studded sky, our animated voices filled the compound, as we attempted to
count the constellations through our mosquito nets. One night, though, there
was a soft, moaning sound above us—in one of the spreading branches of a neem
tree. Suddenly, something fell out of the tree with an ominous thud. “Run! Run!”
I shrieked, alarming my bedfellows. In mortal fear, we tore at our mosquito
nets, all of us reaching the verandah about the same time as our anxious
parents. In the glare of Uncle Pat’s torchlight, a lifeless monkey lay on the
parched lawn. Shot by someone earlier in the day, the wounded animal took
refuge in the tree but, unable to hold onto life, or limb, it had dropped
helplessly to the ground.
**
Patricia McGready was born in Nagpur,
India, in 1941 and moved to the
or via www.amazon.com or
from the author herself: patloubuf@wavecable.com